


Black Tears

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written as an answer to <a href="http://mctabby.livejournal.com/287421.html">McTabby's Nightmare Pairing Pledge</a>: <a href="http://donnaimmaculata.livejournal.com/54905.html">I, Donna Immaculata, do solemnly swear that my favorite HP character is Remus Lupin and my least favorite character is Molly Weasley. The mere thought of them doing naughty things together makes me whimper. However... given sufficient crack and an infinite number of monkeys, here's how a Remus/Molly shag might happen (though I sincerely hope it never does, and if it does, I just don't want to know).</a></p><p>Don't read if you: a) like Molly b) are easily squicked c) <strike>don't believe in Remus' Cock O'Doom</strike> believe that Remus is sweet and harmless</p>
    </blockquote>





	Black Tears

**Author's Note:**

> Written as an answer to [McTabby's Nightmare Pairing Pledge](http://mctabby.livejournal.com/287421.html): [I, Donna Immaculata, do solemnly swear that my favorite HP character is Remus Lupin and my least favorite character is Molly Weasley. The mere thought of them doing naughty things together makes me whimper. However... given sufficient crack and an infinite number of monkeys, here's how a Remus/Molly shag might happen (though I sincerely hope it never does, and if it does, I just don't want to know).](http://donnaimmaculata.livejournal.com/54905.html)
> 
> Don't read if you: a) like Molly b) are easily squicked c) ~~don't believe in Remus' Cock O'Doom~~ believe that Remus is sweet and harmless

"NEVEN SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THAT - WHAT ARE THOSE PEOPLE THINKING - I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS - POOR CHILD - NO MOTHER - NO FATHER - NO SOCKS!"

The shrill shrieks and wailings carried audibly through the hall when Remus, returning from a secret and very dangerous mission, entered the house at twelve Grimmauld Place. A second voice fell in, and both created a marvellously harmonised cacophony of sounds.

"FILTH! BLOODTRAITORS! SCUM BEFOULING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS!"

A shadow hushed through the dark hall, and, squinting hard, Remus saw Arthur Weasley disappearing upstairs. Frowning, he made towards the kitchen, when a dark figure appeared on top of the stairs. In the next moment, he bumped into something warm and solid, which turned out to be Bill Weasley, apparently too eager to escape the pandemonium downstairs to pay attention to possible obstacles.

"What's going on?" asked Remus in an undertone, which was entirely drowned by the shouts of "ORPHANED DEAR - NO-ONE TO CARE FOR HIM - LET ME DARN YOUR SOCKS!" which now emerged from the kitchen. Bill raised his hands in a resigned gesture.

"Forget it, mate. She's gone totally berserk. Not even you've got a chance to save him now, so save your own skin."

"What?" said Remus to the accompanying screeches of "FREAKS - MUTANTS - VILE HALF-BREEDS!", but Bill only shook his head sadly and disappeared in the dim hall, muttering indistinctly under his breath.

Remus took the last few steps feeling rather apprehensive. Bill had seemed genuinely upset, and he wasn't a man whose composure was easily shattered. Apparently, something serious must be going on.

He almost stumbled over Ron, who was crouching in the doorway, looking slightly green. He jumped on being addressed by Remus.

"It's Harry," he said in a shaky voice, "he was walking around barefoot - you know, without shoes - and mum saw him and saw that his socks had holes in them and now -" he shrugged helplessly. "She means well, y'know. But it's not easy, with us seven, and Harry, too. She wants to darn the holes," he added as though that explained it all.

"And he won't let her?" Remus asked, eyeing the scene warily. Harry cowered in the far corner, stuck between the old-fashioned buffet and the massive oven, looking as though he was about to be sick. Molly, despite being a head shorter than the boy, seemed to tower over him, shouting at the top of her lungs. She was clutching Harry's upper arm with one hand and waving the other threateningly, armed with a gigantic needle.

Ron shrugged again. "I don't think he got the chance of saying anything."

Remus cleared his throat.

"Molly," he said, bleakly. "Molly!"

She turned around, and Harry used her momentary distraction to wrench his arm from her grip. Ducking under her arm, he ran towards the door as though hellhounds were hot on his heels (which, considering the whole Sirius-incident, was not the most tasteful metaphor, but Remus had never claimed to be the most tasteful of men). Ron grabbed Harry by his shirtfront, and both boys faded into the shadows.

"Molly, please stop crying." Remus walked over to her, pulling out a handkerchief with a practised gesture. He was running low again, he noticed vaguely. If this little interlude was any indication, he should restock lest he ran out of handkerchiefs before she ran out of tears and snot.

"I'm so- so- sorry-" she wailed, throwing herself at him and wrapping her arms around his neck. "But- but- but-" she hiccupped and Remus felt the moisture of her breath against his neck, "the poor boy, oh, the poor boy!" Her words got drowned in a renewed flood of tears. Remus tilted his head away from her face, grimacing at the wetness spreading across his collar. "His socks have holes in them," said Molly and gave a tremendous sob, which shook her whole ample body.

"Molly, calm down," said Remus as she clutched the front of his robes and rubbed her face against the fabric. He looked down and saw a long thread of snot trailing across his chest. That settled it. Remus made up his mind in a second.

"Molly," he said, dropping his voice, just a little, and felt her breath hitch. Slowly, he tightened his arms around her, pulling her gradually closer. With one hand, he began to stroke her back, her hair, while the other circled around her waist.

Molly gave a tiny squeal when he pulled her flush against him, but she didn't resist. Good.

"It's all right, Molly, I'm sure he'll come round." He kept talking, saying soothing nonsense, while his hands continued their exploration of her body. He felt her tremble under his touch.

"Re- Remus," she hiccupped, "what are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" he said, his voice dark and husky, and saw her eyes widen.

"You're... _touching_ me," she said, sounding rather uncertain, but still without making any attempt of freeing herself from his embrace. Remus laughed, low and soft.

"Of course I am - _touching_ you," he said, letting his voice vibrate, just a little. "I can hardly avoid touching you when you wrap yourself around me... like now." He accompanied his words with a gentle brush of his thumb against her chin.

"This is hardly appropriate," said Molly, but her attempt of sounding stern was thwarted by a sudden attack of renewed sobs. "I don't think we should-" she began tearfully, but he interrupted her.

"Shh, Molly. Who else is there? Who else is there to hold you and comfort you when you're feeling down? Your children? Your husband? Do they ever hold you when you're upset?"

It was a low blow, but not quite as low as what he still had in store for her. While Molly began crying again, interspersing her sobs with mutterings of, "lonely," and "housewife," and "useless," Remus pulled back and began stroking himself discreetly. He could hardly convince her of his burning desire without any physical evidence.

"What - ever - would - I - do - without - you?" she sobbed, hiccupping so hard the words were barely distinguishable. "You - are - always - there - for - me - you - understand - me-"

"How could I not be there for you?" Remus crushed her to his chest and pressed his pelvis against her soft belly, gritting his teeth and hoping that he wouldn't lose his erection at the contact. "You are a beautiful woman," he lied, looking down at her swollen eyes, blotchy face and snotty nose. Remus brushed his lips over her temple (carefully avoiding the wet eye), and felt the remnants of her resistance crumble. With a soft gasp, she plastered herself to his chest, her breasts against his ribcage, her pelvis moving in small circles. Remus grabbed her hand and pressed it against his cock.

It all happened in a flurry of heat and need. Hands, tearing at clothes, her hot, wet mouth on his face and neck, his hand under her robes, and then, at last, she sank down to her knees, while he leaned back against the table, grimly resolved to enjoy himself.

Her mouth felt very soft and slack as she swallowed him deeply, without any finesse or subtlety. Her tongue pressed against the underside of his cock, and Remus gasped and thrust. Molly made a strangled sound deep in her throat, but he disregarded her obvious discomfort (her nose was still running, and snot was dripping down onto his cock) and cupped the back of her head. He _was_ going to enjoy this.

~*~

Walburga Black was rarely disconcerted. She had been the mistress of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black all her life and after her death, she thrived on the knowledge of her own power and importance. No-one had ever dared lay one finger on her painting. Not her worthless traitor of a son (who had gone and had himself killed in any case), not the Potter boy, who had brought the Dark Lord's downfall, not the Muggle-loving Dumbledore, who did his best to ignore her whenever he entered the house that had been hers for years. She felt secure in her position forever.

However, most recently, she had noticed something that made her feel vaguely unsettled. The werewolf, whose presence in her house made her (no longer existent) insides clench with righteous rage and her (no longer flowing) blood pump in her veins, had begun watching her from those shadowed eyes with an expression that made her squirm in her seat. Unlike in former days, when he would try to keep her locked up under the thick fabric of her curtains, he now took every opportunity to open them and let her shout and rage and throw insults at him. He never retaliated; he merely stood there, watching, and smiling, and watching. From time to time, he would take a swig from the bottle of cheap liquor, and she had already run out of appropriate insults, comparing his behaviour to that of her son's, and telling him gleefully that he would end just like Sirius, drunk and lonely and more than half-mad with despair.

The werewolf never took the bait. He looked half-mad already, his eyes calm and dark, his mouth twisted in a little smile. She shouted at him and insulted him whenever he came into view. She was desperate to silence the voices in her head, the voices that kept whispering, "they never found out how she died" and "you saw him come up the stairs" and "her eyes were closed and her mouth was wide open when they carried her from the kitchen" and "he was the last one to see her alive". And when the werewolf went away, gliding across the hall silently like the angel of death, she couldn't stop her brain from replaying it again and again. _She's dead now, dead, dead, just like you, and no-one will ever know, no-one will ever find out what happened, because they trust him. They trust him, and they will never believe you, no matter what you say, no matter what you do, because he is their friend and you are the enemy._

And another, fainter, voice made itself heard, too, and she screamed louder than ever to drown it, because it had become more and more persistent, and she didn't like to hear what it had to say. _He knows that you know,_ the voice said, and she screamed, _and he will make sure that there are no witnesses,_ and she screamed and screamed until he stepped forward and pulled the curtains shut, and she fell back into darkness and oblivion.

~*~

"Good afternoon, Mrs Black," the werewolf said, pulling aside the curtains, and she was blinking against the bright light. "I hope you are well today."

She didn't scream, this time. Her heart (no longer there, but she still could feel it beating against her ribcage) clenched and her mouth went dry. He was looking up at her with that unnatural composure of his, and she knew that he had found a way.

He leaned against her painting. She recoiled when his shoulder touched her skirt, and, disgusted, watched him carry the bottle of cheap brandy to his mouth. Looking her straight in the eyes, he spat a mouthful back onto his hand and held it in front of her face. The sharp, acidic scent of liquor hit her nostrils, and she understood.

The werewolf smiled that cruel little smile of his. "Yes, Mrs Black," he said, stroking the edge of the frame with his knuckles. "Yes, you see what the solution will be."

"You're going to wipe me away." For once, she was unable to raise her voice above a whisper. "With cheap brandy! You're going to wipe me away!" Hot rage was boiling inside her, but then his soft voice reached her ears.

"Clearly, you are more affected by the idea of being humiliated," he gave her a hard stare, "with _cheap_ brandy than by the fact that you're going to vanish into nothingness. Maybe we should take advantage of that."

He plunged his hand inside his trousers, and before she had time to comprehend what he was about to do, he pulled his hand back again. When he lifted his hand, turning it so that she could see his fingers, she realised that there was moisture clinging to his fingertips. He thrust his hand back into his trousers and began moving it, his eyes fixed on her face.

"How will you like it, I wonder," he said, as though pondering a serious question, "how will you like it if we take it slowly? If I don't use the alcohol on you," he smiled, "but rather a fluid that carries alcohol? How will you like it, Mrs Black, if I make you dissolve with an orgasm of mine?"

She stared back at him, incredulous, horror-stricken, petrified, and then he pulled back his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his wet palm against her painting. She felt a sharp stab and watched his semen trickle down the canvas, taking the paint down with it and leaving smudged streaks, like black tears on pale skin.


End file.
